Touching care from a large hospital Touching care from a large hospital (December 22, 2004)

By Anne Hillman

Did you ever hear this rumor?

"Stanford Hospital is so big and impersonal. If I ever get sick, I'm going to some small, intimate hospital where I'll get more personal care."

Nonsense. We live in the light cast by one of the finest health care facilities in the world. I've just experienced there the most skilled care one could ever hope to have.

On September 17 I realized there was something unusual in my body. With no symptoms and nothing palpable, I told my doctor what I'd inwardly sensed.

"There is some kind of presence in my upper abdomen."

"We don't ordinarily hear that kind of description. It's a little unusual." She, too, felt nothing there. Wise woman, she ordered tests anyway. They showed two tumors in my pancreas...

A patient approaching the Stanford Cancer Center feels an initial sense of disbelief: "Me? Does this mean me?" It's terrifying to take in the possibility of a malignancy.

Panicky, you step through the glass doors into a lobby flooded with natural light. The beauty of the architecture is an embrace. As you walk down the hallway, punctuated with small alcoves looking into gardens, a young man sits on a bench playing classical guitar. Somebody cares. You thank him, then hide briefly in an alcove to wipe your tears. You learn that Peter and Helen Bing made that music available for patients and later, harpists play outside your hospital room.

My surgeon, Jeffrey Norton, was double-booked that day, but fit me in. I'd been told he usually scheduled half-hour appointments. He proposed a big surgery, then told us to take all the time we needed with him. He is the most gentle and humane of men; it is no wonder his residents want to be like him. Stanford's dedicated physicians, including its hard-working residents, are unparalleled.

From the moment we entered the hospital until I left 10 days later, I was treated with respect and kindness. First to greet us in surgery admitting was a smiling receptionist, then a friendly young woman who completed the paperwork. Stanford's special advocate for seniors, Rita Ghatak, met us there. If you are a senior, remember her name. She personally facilitates seniors' passage throughout hospitalization and can cut through every kind of red tape.

As a consultant, I worked in hospitals helping to develop teamwork between and within the many professions. Hospitals are the most complex of any organizations. Stanford has teamwork. The nursing staff in the Surgery ICU East and on the 3-East nursing unit, dedicated men and women, gave unparalleled care. When things heated up, aides pinch-hit for one another. When aides were overworked, RNs stepped in. Nursing supervisors helped at the bedside when needed. I welcomed the continuity of care and sense of personal connection.

Not knowing what the staff was up against outside my room, I was fearful of being a nuisance, but the voice that answered my call button was always solicitous. Gone, the annoying noisy page system; nurses and aides wear cell phones. I rarely had to wait for help.

Because nurses are overworked everywhere, a friend suggested I hire private aides the first nights. They proved unnecessary. Nurses gave superb professional care. Some of these men and women came to this country from all over the globe. Many had overcome great hardship, some working for their degrees after being widowed or while a single parent. Young, vibrant, rich with their many-faceted cultures - Russia, Italy, the Philippines and more - each seemed more beautiful to me than the last.

I was grateful to receive an excellent outcome and am on my way to a full and healthy life. Many others have a far harder fight than I. Every day I hear medical helicopters fly over my backyard, carrying donors and organs for transplant. For years, I've silently blessed the donors, their families and the recipients waiting for a second chance at life. While I was not a recipient, my surgeon's patients were located on a major transplant unit at Stanford. I had the privilege of healing for ten days in a circle of people fighting for their lives. I was not unaware that this fight was occurring throughout the hospital.

Hospitals are places of great suffering. To be hospitalized with a serious illness is to be brought to your knees. At Stanford, you need never do that alone. Anne Hillman lives in Portola Valley and is a member of the Almanac's Panel of Contributors. She is the author of The Dancing Animal Woman -- A Celebration of Life and can be reached at annehillman@aol.com

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